


Meet and Greet

by boredom



Series: Crowley and Queen (A Friendship to end all Friendships!) [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23053519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boredom/pseuds/boredom
Summary: Farrokh Bulsara (though he prefers Freddie, thank you very much) is sitting alone at a dive bar, questioning his life and his choices. When a strange man starts wailing and hugging a tartan thermos, he's more than a little curious. Maybe this could be the start of a beautiful friendship?
Series: Crowley and Queen (A Friendship to end all Friendships!) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571422
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	Meet and Greet

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I write one of these, I get another idea for another fic in this universe. Slightly more angsty than my usual Queen/Good Omens fare, but I like this one. Enjoy!

It was 1960s, Soho London. Farrokh Bulsara (though he preferred Freddie, thank you very much) was sitting alone in a dive of a bar. Life wasn't going that great for him. He had yet to make it big and he was beginning to feel pressure from his parents to give up this crazy music dream. He didn't want to give up on it yet, but he was starting to think that they were right. The entertainment business was cutthroat and he didn't seem to be getting anywhere with anything. The thought of giving up what he loved doing was torture. But maybe there was no other way. 

So here he was, in a dive bar full of sketchy, shady characters. The sort who you could hire to do nefarious deeds for cheap. He wasn't scared and he certainly wasn't going to stoop so low as to start breaking into cars, but this was a place you came to blend in. This was a place you came to disappear. This was a place you came when you didn't want to be noticed.

A loud wailing from behind him destroyed his imaginings.

Freddie furrowed his brow and turned to figure out who was making such a racket. You didn't come to this bar in this part of town to cry. You came here to hire criminals or to be a criminal. 

There, in a table half-hidden by a partition, was the strangest man Freddie had ever seen. He looked like a Beatle, except with flaming red hair that looked like it was a wig. Seriously, no one's natural hair was that color. He was wearing dark, circle sunglasses, despite it being close to midnight and the bar itself being very dark. His hair was a bowl-cut and he was dressed head to toe in black. On the table in front of him were three bottles. Two appeared to be already empty and a third one was only about half-full. The weirdest thing about the man, however, was a thermos he was cradling in his arms. 

Freddie was nothing if not curious and he was always looking for inspiration. What better source than a man who was clearly going through some things. He slid off the bar stool, squared his shoulders, and marched over to the man. 

"He's driven with me before. Why does he think I go too fast now?" the man wailed, sobbing into his arms and stroking the thermos which, upon closer inspection, appeared to be some sort of tartan pattern.

Freddie cleared his throat. The man jumped. 

"Um, excuse me, I couldn't help but...overhear you. Is everything alright?" 

The man sighed and flopped back into the chair. "No. He gave me this," he gestured to the thermos, "after he told me he wouldn't and then he refused to let me drive him anywhere. Does that sound like I'm doing okay?" 

Freddie opened and closed him mouth several times, trying and failing to figure out what was going on. 

"Sorry?" He didn't really know if that was the proper thing to say to someone who was currently sobbing into a tartan thermos. 

The man waved a nonchalant hand at him and slid over, a clear invitation for Freddie to sit down. So he did. "I'm Freddie, by the way." 

"Crowley." The man, Crowley, took another very long drink out of the bottle. Freddie was honestly a little worried about his liver. 

"So, Crowley, what exactly happened?" 

Crowley then launched into the strangest drunken ramble Freddie had ever heard. He would have thought the man was fucking with him, but he seemed so sincere he had no choice but to believe that this 'angel' had given him holy water and then denied feelings. It was possibly the most unusual night at the bar Freddie had ever had. 

"So," he said after Crowley had finally finished his ramblings, "you are upset because the angel didn't want to go somewhere with you? It's pretty late. Maybe he just wanted to go to bed." 

Crowley sighed. "I could have driven him home, though. I said I could take him anywhere he liked." 

True, but maybe something else was in play here. Maybe this was all a very strange and surreal metaphor. 

"I mean, you guys have hung out before. Maybe next time he'll say yes?" He really wasn't great at this comforting thing. 

Crowley looked at him. Even with the glasses on Freddie felt his stare boring into him. It made him a little uncomfortable, like Crowley wasn't fully human and the not fully human part of himself was looking into Freddie's very soul and pulling out all of the ugly bits he hated about himself. He swallowed. 

Crowley looked away and the spell was broken. 

"I feel like I can talk to you," he said. "Is that strange? I don't think I've ever been able to talk to anyone before. Can't ask questions. Can't disobey. Can't get support for my interests. Even the other demons think I'm a joke despite the fact that I always get my work done. Not my fault humans do most of it for me." 

Okay, the metaphor thing was going a bit too far, but Freddie could roll with it. Sometimes it was easier to talk in metaphors than in reality. 

"Wish I felt that way," he said, looking back at the dingy bar. A lot of the patrons had left for the night, either to stumble back home alone, stumble to the next bar, or stumble to some strangers house. 

"Why don't you feel that way?" Crowley asked, polishing off the third bottle. 

"Because I haven't drank three full bottles of scotch. I'm not drunk enough to pour my heart and soul out to a stranger." 

"But I'm drunk enough to listen." Crowley looked at him. 

Freddie sighed and tossed back the rest of his drink. "Look, it's just, I feel pressured by my family to do something with my life. I love music and I want to be a singer, but it's not happening. Then it's like, do I settle and live a perfect, mundane life? Do I keep going with the possibility that I might not make it? Do I just hide the parts of myself that don't fit in with their vision of me all so that I don't rock the boat? I'm sitting here, in this bar, looking five, ten, fifteen years into the future and honestly, it seems like no matter the scenario, I end up alone and unhappy." 

Crowley looked at him, sighed, and patted his shoulder. "That's rough." He then started laughing. 

"What's so funny?" Freddie sniffed. He poured out his heart and soul to this man and now he was laughing at him? Rude.

"It's just, we're both such a mess. I didn't think there was anyone out there who was as messy as I am." Crowley continued to shake with laughter. 

Freddie though about it for a minute, and then started laughing as well. He was right. He was a mess. 

"And what's your suggestion for how to deal with this?" 

"You think i have a suggestion? I've been pining after my best friend for 6000 years and I don't even think he thinks we're friends." 

"Ah, I think he does. Otherwise, why would he continue to be around you, darling?"

Crowley thought about it for a minute, still smiling, and shrugged. "You've got a point. What did you say your name was?"

"Freddie." He held out his hand. 

Crowley shook it. "Anthony Crowley. Just call me Crowley. Glad you came over, Freddie. Don't think I would have gotten out of that on my own."

"No problem. Thanks for listening to me. Sometimes I feel like I'm screaming into the void with no one actually listening to me." 

Crowley's face darkened and Freddie was afraid he had said something wrong. "I know how that feels," he said. Though he brightened immediately after. "But, you listened to me, which means that maybe I'm not screaming into a void." 

"Same."

Crowley held out a slip of paper. "Here's my number. Maybe we should hang out again. Let our woes go, so to speak."

"Maybe with less alcohol next time?" 

"Alcohol, darling, is the best part." Crowley slid out of the booth and gave a nonchalant wave as he sauntered out the door. 

Freddie looked at the number in his hands and felt something strange come over him. He felt...calm. For the first time in his life, he felt like things were actually starting to go his way, that things were happening for a reason. Maybe Crowley was a messy drunk sobbing into a tartan thermos and using the weirdest metaphors to describe his relationship, but there was something about him that made Freddie feel okay. He left the bar that night feeling more hopeful than ever. After all, everything happened for a reason.


End file.
